


Agent Coulson Absolutely, Positively, Does NOT Get Sick (Except for When He Does)

by AlyKat



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Clint’s Clint, Coulson is a terrible patient, Coulson’s stubborn, First Kiss, Fluff, Get Together, Hurt/Comfort, Kate is a Bro, M/M, Non-fatal illness, Pining, Sickness, Slightly crack-tastic..., a mix of MCU and new Hawkguy comics, lots of fluff.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:15:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlyKat/pseuds/AlyKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agent Coulson has never taken a sick day in his entire life (well, at least that’s what the rumors say). He does not get sick. Ever. Except for when he does. Lucky for him, Clint is there to make sure he’s taken care of and nursed back to health.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Agent Coulson Absolutely, Positively, Does NOT Get Sick (Except for When He Does)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: These are totally Marvel's toys. I'm just playing in their toybox. Torchwood, Jack, and Ianto totally aren't mine either and I'm just using them for my own selfish pleasures. Same goes for that excerpt from "Robin Hood" at the end. Nothing is mine!

It started with a tickle in his throat. Just the slightest catch to his voice that, unless you were as familiar with his voice as Clint was –hearing it spoken directly into his ear on more missions than he could count—you wouldn’t notice it. It was there though; scratching its way through his words and threatening to maybe even trip him up while giving orders.

From his perch across the street Clint Barton frowned. No one else noticed the way Coulson seemed to be speaking just a hair softer than normal. It wasn’t brought up how the man seemed to be having a little difficulty swallowing every now and then. There was something wrong, not life threatening or ops-blowingly wrong, but something wrong with _Coulson_ that made the archer’s heart suddenly speed up some. He’d been watching the group of agents for the past two days, his handler especially (hey, it wasn’t every day he got to see the man in a dark sweater turtleneck and broken in light jeans. He was totally allowed to ogle from afar!), but he never saw anyone get close enough to inject him with anything. No one had sprinkled any mysterious powder on him. The food was always clean and Coulson never ever left his drinks unattended (…there was a story behind that, and Barton was determined to one day get it out of Coulson). So the fact that Coulson quietly cleared his throat again for the sixth time in four minutes definitely made it clear that something just wasn’t right.

Staring down his scope, Clint’s hand came up to tap his comm twice gently. The private channel designated between himself and his handler. Contrary to popular belief, Barton very rarely took advantage of that link to the man, opting to instead hassle and heckle people through the open lines until there was finally something for him to do. He watched as Coulson’s head tilted ever so slightly to the side, his right hand coming up to cradle his head right by his ear.

“You might wanna consider ordering a warm green tea with honey, Sir. Might do your throat some good.”

He smirked as he watched the slight jump to the agent’s shoulders, cuing him in that the man had once again quietly cleared his throat before the crackle-pop of the line came through again.

“Pay attention to the mission, Barton.”

“I am, Sir. Nobody’s moved in the past two hours. Drink some fucking tea and honey. Don’t be so stubborn.”

“Clear this channel, Agent Barton.”

There it was! The scratch and thickness that no one else seemed to notice! Tapping his comm again, Clint huffed quietly to himself and stared back down his scope. The waitress had moved back to Coulson’s table and turned around again to leave after a few seconds.

“You stubborn jackass,” grumbled Barton, mentally rolling his eyes. He watched as the older agent took a slow, deep breath and sipped at his water silently.  A few moments later, the waitress returned again, this time carrying a steaming white cup atop a small cream colored plate, a spoon balanced expertly beside the cup. She smiled as she set it down in front of the undercover agent and went back to business as usual.

A slow smirk spread across the sniper’s face. Coulson leisurely picked up the spoon, making a tiny show of stirring the mystery drink. He tapped the silverware gently against the cup before setting it to the side. His head turned to the left, blue eyes glancing off in Barton’s direction, before he lifted the cup to his lips. Clint didn’t need any words to know that the look the handler was directing off to him clearly asked, _Happy now? Keep your mind on your tasks._

He tapped his comm again.

“Break out your glasses and a notebook and you could totally pass for a middle-aged hipster, Sir.”

Barton absolutely did not miss the subtle single-finger salute.

 

~*~*~

 

To anyone else, it was just a sneeze. Nothing weird about a sneeze, right? Except, it wasn’t just a sneeze. Not a regular one anyways. It wasn’t like Clint was paying an obsessive amount of attention to his handler or anything, he just…happened to be overly observant at times.

Ever since they’d returned from their mission to cold and rainy Glasgow, there had been something not right with the agent. The tickle in his voice that wasn’t going away, the subtle little half-coughs, and now the sneezing. If it were any other person in the world, Clint might almost think all the little things were nothing of any concern. It was their life, their problem, he wasn’t going to get involved.

But it wasn’t any other person.

It was Agent Coulson.

 _His_ Agent Coulson.  The man who never got sick.

Following out of the debriefing, Clint did a quick half-jog to fall into line next to the man. Their shoulders brushed gently and he flashed a bright smile as they walked side-by-side down the hall. Baby agents parted to either side as they strolled by, some even gawking at the sight of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s two best and infamous agents coming towards them. It was good to be on top sometimes.

“So, want me to bring you some soup from the cafeteria later?”

In his defense, Coulson absolutely did not react to those words. He kept his eyes straight ahead and only gave a tiny cough to clear his throat.

“No. That won’t be necessary.”

“Sure? Could probably convince them to fix up some Campbell’s Chicken Noodle.”

“No.” Coulson turned the corner sharply, his eyes never flickering to the archer.

“Coulson, c’mon. It’s okay to admit you might be getting sick. Eat some soup. Pop some meds. Be your badass self and kick the cold’s ass before it gets any worse. Don’t want the baby agents finding out you’re actually _human_. It’d totally ruin your reputation.”

The agent’s hand faltered just above the knob to his office. With another soft cough, he squared his shoulders and shoved the door open. 

“I don’t have a cold, Agent Barton. I don’t get sick. I expect your report on my desk by 1800.”

Clint arched an eyebrow as Coulson slipped into his office and shut the door resolutely behind him. It was only because he was still standing so close that the archer heard the sneeze followed by a throaty cough. Right. Of course Agent Coulson never got sick. For shame on him for even thinking it.

 

~*~*~

 

In his defense, Coulson never specified _which day_ by 1800 Clint was to have his report turned in by. So if he got sent out on a milk run by Sitwell the next day, and then had a thing come up the day after that, it wasn’t his fault, right? He still got the report done. Just, not by the right date.

The folder in hand, he strolled down the hall of senior agent offices until he came upon his handler’s door. It was closed which didn’t really surprise him. Or stop him, for that matter. With a single warning knock, the archer let himself into the room and instantly froze. The office was dark save for the dim glow of the computer’s screen saver. Again, nothing too unusual there, except…there was a form hunched over at the desk. Their head rested on folded arms and they never even twitched when Clint closed the door behind him.

Coulson’s suit jacket was draped over the arm of the couch, the dark blue tie with delicate silver flecks dropped over top of the jacket. The fact the agent had taken off his jacket was unnerving enough as it was, but the _tie_? Clint could almost act like everything was fine and normal with the jacket being on the couch, but the fact Coulson had taken off his tie as well sent warning bells blaring through the sniper’s mind. They grew louder when an utterly pathetic coughing fit finally stirred the senior agent out of his nap and had him sitting up quickly.

Clint’s chest tightened at the sight. Even in the dim light of the computer screen, he could see the thin layer of sweat glistening on the agent’s brow. His off-white dress shirt was unbuttoned to the second hole and seemed to be trying to cling to the man’s body gently. He was tempted to turn the lights on so he could get a better look at the agent, but if the lights were off then there was probably a damn good reason for it.

The agent coughed a couple more times before he finally blinked his eyes open and groaned. Clint couldn’t help the playful little finger-wiggle-wave and smile as his handler caught sight of him. He’d busted Coulson and the man knew it.

“So, for a guy who doesn’t get sick, you sure seem pretty unwell to me.”

Blue eyes narrowed in what was supposed to be a threatening glare, but the result was nothing short of laughable. Shaking his head, Clint set his file folder down on the desk and moved around to the other side.  As he rounded the corner of the desk, his eyes did a quick scan of the situation. There was a box of tissues sitting in a partially opened drawer, but no signs of any medicines. In the trashcan were a dozen or more discarded tissues and sanitizer wipes.

“C’mon, Coulson. It’s okay to admit you’re sick. It happens to the best of us.” Clint’s voice was soft and gentle as he reached out to take the older agent’s elbow in hand. With a careful tug, he pulled the reluctant man out of his chair and to his feet.

“…’m not—“

“—sick. Right, of course you’re not. It’s all an elaborate training exercise. I know. Why don’t we take this down to medical and give them some extra training, okay?”

Coulson actually groaned weakly. The sound twisted Clint’s chest and forced a sympathetic smile onto his face. He had to laugh though, when the agent announced he wasn’t going to go to medical and Clint couldn’t make him.

“You never go when you’re supposed to. Don’t be a hypocrite.”

He had Clint there. It would be a shitty move to force the man down to medical when he himself never went. Well, he’d go occasionally if Fury or Hill or Coulson literally dragged him down there, but he’d be in the wind five minutes later leaving nothing but an open air vent access panel in his wake.

His arm slipped around Coulson’s middle, holding the man up until he was sure he wouldn’t crumble back down into the chair again. He could feel the warmth radiating off the agent, his skin flushed and just a hint of pale red creeping into his cheeks. His original assessment of Coulson having a cold just went soaring out the window. With a soft frown, Clint nodded and held the man closer.

“Alright, fair enough. No medical. But you’re not staying here.” Barton moved them to the couch where he lifted the tie from its resting place and turned his attention back to his handler. He wasn’t going to lie to himself and say he wasn’t secretly crushing on the man. He wholeheartedly admitted that fact to himself. Not to anyone else, but he could at least admit it to himself. Having Coulson within hand reach, his fingers being allowed to touch and rebutton that shirt was enough to send a horde of rampant butterflies soaring through his stomach.

Coulson tried to swat the archer’s hands away, weakly protesting the ministration and the implication that he’d actually have to use a sick day. Clint took it all in stride as he looped the tie back around the agent’s neck and quietly knotted it back up. He kept it loose around the collar and warmly smoothed his hands over it before picking the suit jacket up.

“Here, better put your jacket back on, at least until we get out of here. People are gonna think we’re at DEFCON 2* or something if they see you walkin’ around without your jacket on.” He let the agent put his own jacket on while moving back to Coulson’s desk. He picked up the phone that sat on the right side corner and punched in the code for Director Fury’s office.

He didn’t have to wait long before the line was picked up.

“Fury.”

“Sir, it’s Agent Barton. I’m just calling to let you know little Phillip Coulson won’t be into the office later and he’s definitely not going on any missions for awhile. Could you please have his homework ready to be collected and sent home with Agent Romanov?”

“Barton, what the hell are you going on about?”

Clint’s eyes flickered up to watch Phil struggle with his jacket for a moment. He was tempted to go over and take care of it for him, but Coulson wasn’t a total invalid, he could handle a few jacket buttons. Blue-green eyes darting back down to the desk, his calloused fingers toyed with the edge of a folder.

“Coulson’s sick, Sir. Soon as he’s no longer falling asleep at his desk and sweating through dress shirts, he’ll be back to work. In the meantime though, I’m taking him home. So if you absolutely have to have some shit filed or written up…get Sitwell to do it.”

There was a pause on the line. Barton could see Coulson out of his peripheral vision and watched as the man folded himself down onto the couch. It was endearing and yet heartbreaking to watch him curl up into himself and bury his face into the back cushions. His poor Agent Coulson.

“Damn stubborn jackass. Keep an eye on him, Barton. I don’t want to see him back here until he’s no longer a health-risk for the rest of my agents.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Without another word, the sniper settled the receiver back into its cradle and stepped back to the couch. Coulson’s eyes were once again closed, his dark lashes standing out against the pale skin under them. Clint really didn’t want to wake the man up again, and if it weren’t for the fact he knew how uncomfortable it was to sleep on a couch he’d let the agent stay right where he was. He couldn’t do that though. He’d been ordered to get Coulson and his germs out of the building.

His hand reached out to gently rest on Phil’s shoulder.

“Sir? Coulson? C’mon, gotta get up again. Time to go.”

Phil grumbled something into the cushions, a jumble of words Clint couldn’t really decipher but thought they sounded a lot like, “ _Just let me die, Barton…_ ” He couldn’t be sure about that though. His sympathetic half-smile tugged at his lips again as he shook his head and levered the man back up to his feet.

“I know, sleep is good. Promise, you can sleep more once we get you out of here, okay?”

Coulson grumbled incoherently under his breath as Clint slipped his arm back around the agent’s waist and helped him out of the building. He’d never been so thankful for having such an intimidating ‘resting face’ look. It kept people from staring at them both and gawking. Well, at least until they were out of earshot.

It was cute the way Agent’s head lulled to the side, resting heavily against the cool glass of the car. It wasn’t his baby, the gorgeous Charger he loved so much that was washed away when Sandy blew through, but it at least got him around. Clint had to force himself not to keep glancing over at the man while he drove. It wasn’t easy, but he managed well enough.

The journey from car to apartment was an interesting one. Fatigue and weakness were obvious as Barton led the way up the few front steps, pausing to let Coulson rest against the doorframe for a moment and then starting the slow, torturous ascent to the fourth floor. By the time they reached his door, Phil had yanked his tie undone and was huffing up a storm. It was scary, seeing the man like that. Clint had never seen Coulson out of breath like he was (…at least, not in person. Dreams were another and completely inappropriate story all together) and the agent could hardly keep his eyes open.

Clint let Coulson rest against the wall for a moment while he fished his keys from his pocket and opened the door. Clint’s apartment wasn’t anything spectacular. Unpainted brick walls, second-hand furniture (what few pieces there were), a bunch of books that really were more to look at and take up space in his bookshelves than actually get read, and a rather impressive entertainment system. If it weren’t for the two doors to the right, his place would appear to be a studio apartment. The wide open floor plan of the living area made it impossible to decipher between living room and dining room (not that Clint had a dining room table to begin with…so really, he claimed to have an awesomely epic huge living room), and if it weren’t for the breakfast counter with stools there’d be nothing to show where living room stopped and kitchen started.

It definitely wasn’t much, but it was his (literally. He _owned_ the entire building. It was great!).

He shut the door behind them, sliding the locks into place while his handler slouched against the wall next to him. The poor guy was fading fast. From a spot on the couch, a yellow-furred mutt lifted his head and just blinked at the pair.

“Aww, dog. You’re useless. What if I’d been a robber?” The dog just continued to stare, as if almost calling him on his bullshit. Right, like anyone would want to bust into his apartment. Only thing he had worth stealing was his entertainment system, and if they really wanted it that badly then…he’d just have to buy a new one later. “We need to work on your guard-dogging skills.” 

Lucky huffed softly before putting his head back down on his paws, his eye falling peacefully shut again. The dog really was useless, but he was at least something to come home to at the end of the day. Without giving him another thought, Clint turned to heft Coulson back to his feet. Sweat was starting to dampen the man’s hair, clumping it together and sticking it to his scalp. When Barton first decided to bring the agent back to his apartment instead of driving all the way out to where Coulson’s place was he’d planned to get the man settled on the couch. Lucky had other ideas though.

It wasn’t that Clint didn’t want Coulson in his bed –God did he _ever_!—he just wasn’t sure how his handler would take to being settled in his asset’s bedroom. They’d shared beds before during missions, sometimes even a sleeping bag if they were really desperate, but this was different. This felt far more intimate. Coulson had never been this vulnerable before and usually the handler was taking care of Clint, not the other way around.

Carefully and slowly, he maneuvered Phil into his bedroom. So many nights he’d dreamed of manhandling the older agent into the room, but the dreams always involved clothing being dropped along the way, roaming hands, and inhuman noises coming from both of them. Gently prodding and coaxing Phil into the room was not how he’d hoped to get the man into his room. Coulson trembled under Clint’s hands, his teeth chattered softly in his head as he groaned weakly.

“Why’s it s-so cold?”

“Sorry ‘bout that, Sir. I’ll give you extra blankets.” Clint’s hand smoothed up and down Coulson’s back gently as he finally got the man to the bed. He debated for a minute on whether or not he should leave him in his suit, or strip him down so he was more comfortable. Barton could remember the days of falling asleep in his everyday clothes, how uncomfortable it was to sleep like that and it had to be worse when you were sick.

With a deep, calming breath, he flashed a charming grin as his fingers set to work peeling clothes off the man.

“Gotta get you changed. You’ll hate yourself and probably me if I let you sleep in your suit. Actually, you’d hate me more than yourself if I let you sleep in your suit.”

Coulson’s eyes were already closed as he feebly attempted to help extract himself from his shirt and jacket.

“Couldn’t hate you, Barton…” He mumbled softly, his body quickly becoming as pliant as a ragdoll’s.

Clint couldn’t help the sad, half laugh. “Right. You say that now, but I’m pretty sure you could and would hate me for letting you sleep in your clothes like this. C’mon, stand up for me, almost done.”

His hands stuttered slightly as they undid the silver clasp of the leather belt and fingered at the button on Phil’s black Dolce slacks. Jesus Fuck why couldn’t this be under better circumstances? Why couldn’t he be tearing into those pants to wrap his hand around the shaft hidden inside? Have Coulson’s hands tugging at his clothes while they topple back onto the bed?

God now was _so_ not the time to be thinking about things like that.

“Couldn’t hate you…you’re difficult…and,” Another chill ran through him as Clint finally got the slacks lowered off his hips, “…and fr-frustrating…but…I…c-could never h-hate you…”

Clint’s eyes lifted and his hands paused. For a moment all he could do was stand there and search the other’s face. He wanted to believe there was something behind those words, something that could lead to them maybe having a repeat of this later, once Coulson was back to 100% and with more kissing and roaming hands involved. He didn’t want to get his hopes up though. There was just no way a guy like Coulson could ever want to be with a screw up like Clint. It just didn’t happen. Not outside fairy tales anyways, and face it, Clint’s life was _far_ from a fairy tale.

A self-deprecating laugh bubbled out of him as he shook his head; his eyes down cast and voice feigning a joking tone.

“Damn, now I know you’re sick. Fever’s going to your head, Coulson.” Gently, he pushed the man back down onto the bed and set to work removing his shoes and socks. He’d pat himself on the back later for absolutely not peeking up at the agent’s boxers.

“…’m _not sick_ …” Coulson whined. That was the only way to describe it. It was a full on, pouty five-year-old’s protest that was only sounding less and less believable by the minute.

“Of course you’re not.” Clint moved to his dresser, glad he’d remembered to do laundry before he was sent out on those last two missions. He pulled a pair of dark blue flannel sleeper pants out of the drawer, along with one of his older long sleeved shirts (because yes, he _did_ wear shirts with sleeves. His arms _did_ get cold every now and then, thank you very much). From the smaller top drawer he tugged a pair of thick, thermal socks. At least dressing Coulson would be a little easier than _undressing_ him was.

By the time he got back to his bed, the agent who could level a person with a bag of flour was already fast asleep. It was only then that Clint allowed himself to look the man over. Of course he’d seen Coulson in very little before, and had always appreciated the few stolen glances he’d gotten. Now he could sit at the edge of the bed ( _his_ bed) and just take it all in. Every discolored and faded scar; every knick and freckle (and oh those freckles were probably the most adorable thing he’d ever seen). It was probably creepy, sitting there taking mental pictures of what Phil looked like when stripped down to just his boxers, but he would feel guilty about it later.

With a heavy sigh, Barton looked down to his own hands, to the clothes grasped between his fingers. God he was going to need to schedule an appointment with psych by the time this was all over. And probably never be able to wear those clothes again. …or wear them and then never want to take them off.

“You’re pathetic, Barton.” He muttered, shaking his head while shoving himself off the bed again. As he moved to carefully wrangle Phil into the warm clothes, he reminded himself over and over again that guys like Phil Coulson never wound up with cocky, smart-mouthed snipers like him.

~*~*~

The TV flickered through the darkened living room. Images flashed across the screen of a handsome man wearing a military long coat and chasing some strange monster/alien/thing through the streets of Cardiff. It wasn’t often that Clint actually sat down to watch TV, and when he did, it was usually something he didn’t have to think too deeply on to understand.

With his dog Lucky spread out against him on the couch, the archer’s hand moved idly up and down the soft fur. His eyes were on the screen, but his mind was definitely on the man still asleep in his bed. Coulson had only woken up a couple of times in the past 36 hours, and never for very long. Usually it was just long enough for Clint to get him to drink something, get down a few saltines ( _maybe_ half a piece of warm toast), and choke down the cherry flavored Theraflu the archer shoved in his mouth.

For the first six hours, Clint had hardly left Phil’s bedside. He’d found ways to occupy himself until the man stirred. He would sit and read from whatever book happened to be sitting next to his bed at the time. He didn’t read it very well…but he read it. Every now and then he’d retreat to his bathroom for a wet cloth, returning seconds later to gently wipe down the other agent’s face and neck. Despite the chills, Coulson seemed to appreciate the cool, wet cloth against his skin. Clint made note and did his best to keep a tepid one folded over the man’s forehead.

It was silly but, the archer was actually kind of dreading when Phil’s fever would finally break and he’d be able to take care of himself again. He’d no doubt insist on going back to his own apartment and things would go back to the way they always were before.

Clint sighed as the long-coat (who was missing his coat at the moment) sat at his desk, another man leaning against it casually as they talked. It was a position Clint knew all too well himself. How many times had he stood like that in Phil’s office while the man worked? Had looked at the agent the same way the man on screen looked at the other? Only, unlike in the show, Clint never found the courage to surge forward and smash his lips to his bosses.

“You’re watching _Torchwood?_ **_Again_**?”

The voice from his doorway should have startled him, only it didn’t. In fact, he’d almost been expecting it. Eyebrows arched, his blue-greens flicked to the door, then back to the TV.

“I like this show. Jack and Ianto are my OTP. Bite me.”

“Your--…okay, I don’t know what’s sadder, you saying they’re your ‘OTP’ with a straight face, or the fact that I know exactly _why_ they are.”

Clint huffed a half laugh as he moved to settle himself into a mostly sitting position, upsetting Lucky from his warm, comfy laying spot. He made room for the girl and didn’t even bother offering her a place to sit. Kate Bishop no longer required decent manners and proper etiquette when it came to his apartment. There was a story behind how he came into acquiring the young woman…a story that he really had no interest in trying to explain, so don’t bother asking.

Kate moved to flop herself down onto the couch next to him, her lithe body folding into itself as she settled into her corner to watch silently for a bit. Clint knew the silence wasn’t going to last long. The girl was strangely too much like himself. It was only two minutes later before the silence was broken.

“So…Ianto is Jack’s Coulson?”

Clint blinked at the screen, debating on whether to admit that he heard her or not.

“What?”

A hand waved in front of his face, obnoxiously motioning towards the TV.

“Ianto. He’s the one that reminds you of that Coulson guy you’ve been pining after, isn’t he? The one who only ever wears suits, looks harmless and innocent until he finally opens up a can of whoop-ass and goes full-on BAMF. Died in order for Jack to have some reason to fight back in the end.”

He forced himself to take a deep breath at that last one. True, Coulson clearly wasn’t dead, but for a little while he was and that fact still hurt deep in the archer’s heart. Swallowing thickly, Clint debated on playing dumb, but then, he knew the girl would see right through that. Instead, he opted to just not answer and continue to watch the screen.

Kate narrowed her eyes at him, her face scrunched up in a way that was comical more than anything.

“You watch this because Jack and Ianto remind you of you and that Coulson guy. They have what you wish _you_ could have. God, Hawkeye! You’re such a girl!”

“Kate, can we not talk about this right now? Please?”

“Why? It’s not like—“

A creak of a floorboard brought that sentence up short. Clint’s eyes went wide, his heart suddenly screeching to a halt. He didn’t want to turn around and look over his shoulder because he knew what he’d find. The wide-eyed blinks Kate was doing was all he needed to see to know he’d be right. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and slowly turned his head, daring a glance over his shoulder.

Coulson stood just outside the door to the bedroom. His hair was a rumpled mess from sleeping almost two days straight. Clint had managed to get the agent changed into a fresh pair of sleep clothes, much to Coulson’s sleepy-sick chagrin…and boy didn’t that just stab the archer right through the heart. The pale grey Henley with blue sleeves was old and thin, and looked so, so good on the other man. A pair of dark grey sweats hung off the man’s hips that were just a hair too long. It was…positively adorable. The unflappable agent looked so soft around the edges that Clint practically had to sit on his hands just to keep from getting up to go bury his nose in the agent’s neck.

For a long, silent minute, no one said a word. Clint and Coulson were locked in an awkward stare down, one that had the trained assassin’s heart pounding wildly in his chest. How unfair was it that he was internally freaking out and Coulson could still stand there, fresh off being painfully sick, but yet look as calm and collected as always?

Clint gulped.

“Hey…”

“Hello.” Coulson replied softly, voice rough from lack of use and sickness.

“How’re you feelin’?”

He could practically feel Kate’s eye-roll behind him. Yeah, it was an awkward conversation. What about it? Coulson shifted from one foot to the other, his fingers playing gently with the hem of Clint’s shirt.

“I’ve been better.” There was a very faint twinkle trying to spark back to life in Coulson’s eyes as he tried to offer a slight smile. One eyebrow rose questioningly. “Shower?”

Clint’s brain nearly short circuited. His throat went dry and his tongue suddenly felt two sizes too big for his mouth. Jesus fuck what was wrong with him? Coulson wasn’t offering for a shared shower! He was wanting to get cleaned up. Alone. Without help.

“Uh…behind you. Next door. There’s a clean towel hanging up.”

Phil’s head bobbed in a small nod as he carefully turned his back to the pair on the couch. Barton’s eyes did a quick scan from head down across shoulders, over lean hips and nicely shaped posterior, down legs hidden in the slightly-too-large-for-him sweats. If Coulson was up and standing on his own, and in search of a shower, the fever must have broken…and awhile ago. He wondered to himself just how long ago it happened and how long Coulson just stayed snuggled into his bed. Oh maybe that was a bad thing to think about…

_Get a grip, Barton._

“Toss those clothes back out here when you’re ready. I’ll swap ya some fresh ones.”

Coulson paused outside the bathroom door, his hand on the knob and his grey-blue eyes skittering back to the couch to meet with Clint’s. He gave only a subtle nod, but it was still enough to have Barton’s eyes dart quickly to Lucky’s neck, fingers curled in his fur gently. The door clicked quietly close a second later and Clint felt his shoulders slump.

“Oh. My. _God_.”

Cautiously, Clint rolled his eyes up to look out from under dark lashes. Kate’s jaw was hanging nearly to her knees as she kept looking from door, to Clint, to door and back again. Damn the girl for being so fucking observant. Of course, it wasn’t like the original Hawkeye was being all the stealth with his feelings anyways. Hell, he’d almost be concerned if she hadn’t put two-and-two together so quickly.

“That…was that…? It _was_! That was your ‘Ianto’!”

“Katie,” Clint sighed heavily, his hand coming up to drag over his face tiredly. “Can we just…not?”

“That was him, though! Right? The Coulson guy? You were right, he is pretty attractive. Definitely too old for me but, hey, if he fulfills your daddy-kink then more power to ya.”

“ _Hey_!” His head instantly snapped up, eyes cool and hard as he leveled her with a near death glare. “He’s not _that_ much older than me. And if you’re just going to be a little –“

Kate’s hands rose defensively, head ducked just slightly in submission.

“Alright, alright. Sorry. Seriously though, why was Mr. Fabulous wearing your clothes and hiding out in your bedroom? Obviously it wasn’t because you finally caved and told him you’re madly in love with him and had hot wild secret agent men sex the whole night. I don’t think you’d look like a kicked puppy if you had. Unless it was bad. Was it bad?”

Clint groaned as he shoved himself off the couch and moved off for his bedroom. He really, _really_ , didn’t want to be having this conversation.

“We didn’t have sex, Kate. He’s been sick, so I let him stay here since he was being a stubborn ass and wouldn’t go to medical.”

He knew without even looking that the female archer was following him into his bedroom, her eyes trained on him like, well, a hawk. She came by her moniker honest enough. Clint dug around in his dresser silently, pulling out his last pair of clean sleeper pants and a faded, tattered _Superman_ T-shirt. Hopefully Coulson wasn’t too offended by being given not only a _Superman_ shirt instead of his beloved Captain America (which, yeah, still weird he had such a hero-worship crush on the guy), but also a shirt that had clearly seen better days and was literally starting to fall apart. It was lightweight though, soft and comfortable, and one that Barton would find himself changing into if he wasn’t feeling well.

“That’s…sweet? Does that mean if I get sick, you’ll let me stay on your bed, wear your clothes, and have you nurse me back to health?”

“What? No. You keep your little rich girl germs at home if you get sick. Coulson…” Clint trailed off as he shook his head and moved back into the living room, shouldering past her on his way to flop back down on the couch. The clean clothes rolled up in his hands rested heavily on his lap.

“Coulson doesn’t have anyone to help look after him. Not that he _needs_ looking after but…it’s nice to have someone around when you’re not feelin’ up to par. Even unflappable secret agents need a friend every now and then.”

Kate stood next to the couch silently. Her face was scrunched and twisted in thought again, arms folded over her chest and hip canted to the left. The power of her stare made Clint shift slightly. God she had an unnerving glare.

“You’re worse than a girl, Clint. You’re a hopeless, _pining_ , girl. Tell that man you want to have his babies and be done with it. You’re depressing me and being stupid. It’s everything about you that sucks.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, struggling to hide the sad smirk that was threatening to creep up on him. Head bowed but tilted to the side, he quirked an eyebrow at her.

“Thought my ‘running away thing’ was everything about me that sucks.”

“There’s lots about you that sucks, okay? You’re the poster child for messed up life. And by not telling him? You kind of _are_ running away.”

Clint barked a quiet, but sharp laugh. The girl wasn’t wrong. His life had been nothing but trouble, heartache, disappointment and mistakes from the moment he was born. Which only made it all the more obvious why he could never be with Coulson. Clint had a hard enough time with friendships. He was bound to screw up a _relationship_ too.

“I mean it, though. _Tell him._ If you don’t, I will. And I’ll find the most embarrassing way to do it too.”

The frightening part? Clint knew she would. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that she’d find the most humiliating way imaginable to tell Coulson he’d been secretly pining after him for the past half a decade. Heaving a heavy sigh, he shook his head.

“Guys like Coulson _tolerate_ guys like me… _at best_ , they tolerate. Okay? They don’t…they don’t fall in love back.” His shoulders shrugged and he gave a half smile, one that didn’t come even close to reaching his eyes. Kate stared holes through him, hard. He didn’t shift this time, though. He held her cold glare with his own resigned stare. Hell, guys like Coulson fell in love with girls like Kate.

With a huff of frustration, the young woman threw her arms in the air dramatically. She’d officially given up on the matter and Clint could start to relax again. He slouched back on his couch, feeling maybe just a bit smug at having won for a change when Kate spun back on her heels. Her pointed stare accentuated by a jab to the chest.

“Tell. Him. Or else.”

The door slapped shut behind her as she barreled out of the apartment. Again, it should have surprised Clint that she showed up for no real reason and left not long after, but…that was Kate. She was her own unique being and as such, had her own unique quirks. Definitely nothing that Barton could hold against her.

“…you keep interesting company when you aren’t working.”

Now _that_ startled him. The sudden quiet and level voice behind him coming up out of nowhere. He jerked his body around, instincts ready to defend himself if need be. He wasn’t at all prepared to find Coulson standing outside his bathroom door with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. The clothes he’d been wearing earlier were folded and clutched to his chest. Time seemed to slow down as Clint’s eyes followed a single droplet of water down the man’s cheek, just in front of his ear, down the corner of his jaw and racing the rest of the way over his neck.

That…was just rude.

“Uh…what? Oh…oh! Her. Kate. Yeah…I…she’s…” Clint stumbled over something intelligent to say. Words, they were evil and rude too. Clearing his throat, the archer quickly stood back up. As much as his brain screamed at him not to get any closer, his body just wouldn’t listen. In three steps he found himself right in front of the man; close enough he could feel the warm damp air still surrounding Phil and could almost count the freckles he’d already cataloged away in his mind.

“You shoulda told me you were done. I was gonna hand you these so you could…ya know…get changed in there where it was still warm and…everything. Jesus fuck, Sir, you…you shouldn’t be walking around like that. You’re still sick. Go, I dunno, get dried off and changed into these or something. I’m…” Barton’s words and his mentality failed him as he took the dirty clothes from Phil and shoved the clean ones into the man’s empty arms.

He quickly turned his back on the agent, needing to put some distance between them before he did something he regretted. The dirty clothes went soaring to a pile next to the door, a small collection of things that needed to be taken down and washed…at some point in time. Clint moved into his kitchen area, fully prepared to dump a couple cans of condensed Chicken Noodle soup into a pan for them to share. He wouldn’t let himself look up to see where Coulson had gone or if he was still standing stubbornly in the middle of his living room…in nothing but that fucking towel. God how had his life gotten so cruel?

Thankfully, the squeaky floorboard just outside his bedroom let him know when Phil had come back out from getting changed. Only then did he allow himself to look back up from the stove. His handler was dressed in the clothes Clint had presented him (the ratty old _Superman_ shirt looked…surprisingly hot on the man), with one thing extra. A red plaid flannel over-shirt the sharpshooter had been wearing earlier in the day. In fact, he’d been wearing it the last time he’d gone in to check on Phil. When he found the older man was still asleep, Clint had pulled the shirt off and let it fall over the foot of the bed, opting to lounge around in just a T-shirt of his own for the rest of the day.

God it looked good on Phil…

“You know,” Coulson started as he shuffled his way to the breakfast counter, “I always thought Captain Harkness was perhaps a bit misunderstood.”

Clint’s brain flickered slightly.

“Uh…”

His weight balanced heavily on his folded arms, Coulson leaned against the counter. He looked so different from the no-nonsense, stoic Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. Clint was used to. This wasn’t the same person. Agent Coulson never got sick, but _Phil_ Coulson could and did. Phil Coulson was the man suddenly standing in Clint’s kitchen, still glistening from his shower and smelling completely of Clint: from the shampoo he used, to the body wash, all the way down to the cheap fabric softener sheets Clint’d tossed into his drawers to keep clothes fresh smelling. It was maddening and only made the archer feel all the more protective and possessive of the man.

Coulson, for what it was worth, didn’t seem the least bit phased by this. He continued to just casually lean against the counter, half sitting on the bar stool behind him, half lying across his folded arms. It was obvious he was still feeling weak and tired, but was doing his damnedest to stay awake and functioning for more than just a few minutes at a time. Clint’s tongue flicked out to swipe at his suddenly dry lips, his eyes silently searching Phil’s.

“Huh?”

Phil’s sleepy little smile should be illegal. Hell, it was probably listed in the man’s personnel file as one of the many weapons of mass destruction he was trained in using.

“Captain Jack. He’s misunderstood.” When Clint did nothing but stand there a blink at him, Phil continued. “He was a man who lost his family at a young age. He had to learn to take care of himself. No one really took care of him and those who did betrayed him.”

Clint’s mouth went dry. He could feel the weight of Coulson’s gaze on him and the look in the man’s eyes was making the sniper feel like, perhaps, the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent wasn’t talking just about the television character anymore.

“Jack did a lot of things in his past that weren’t necessarily good. He was a con artist and even killed some people, all so that he could survive.” Phil’s voice was growing softer, warmer, more personal as he spoke.  Barton’s heart raced in his chest, blood rushing past his ears in a fury as his fingers clenched around the countertop.

The bar stool scraped across the floor quietly as Phil made his way carefully around to where Clint stood, his eyes never leaving his asset’s. Clint’s didn’t even realize he was backing up until his hip connected with the oven handle, by then it was too late. His handler, the man he’d been hopelessly in love with for the past five years and had been infatuated with for three years before that, was suddenly crowding in around him. The man’s skin was still pale and his eyes weren’t quite back to the brightness they usually were, but they were clear and sure as they stared intently into Clint’s.

When he spoke, the faint scent of Winterfresh Mint toothpaste tickled the archer’s nose.

“He did all those things and never seemed to bat an eye at any of it. Until someone came along and gave him a chance. Showed him he could be the good guy. That he could do the most extraordinary things and be someone people could rely on.”

Clint’s breath caught in his chest when he tried to breathe normally. Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen.

“…how much of what Kate and I talked about did you hear?” The voice that he heard in his ears was so faint and hesitant, uncertain and foreign to him.

Phil smiled softly as his head inched closer.

“Enough…”

Time froze as the pair stood in the kitchen, crowded against each other and breathing the other’s air. Clint’s fingers twitched at his sides. God what he’d give to grab the man by the shirt, yank him in and just kiss the breath right out of him. He swallowed hard as his eyes flickered down to Phil’s lips for a moment before looking back up into his eyes again. The agent hadn’t made any attempt to step back. In fact, his head was actually leaning in closer.

The archer gathered his courage.

“…Coulson. I’m gonna kiss you now…” It was only fair to give _some_ kind of warning, just in case the man didn’t really want that. He wanted to give Phil an out.

Phil smiled a bit wider. A little brighter. His grey-blue eyes flashed for a moment with the light and playful mischief that Clint had fallen in love with.

“I’m still sick.”

Heat surged through Barton as he choked out a stuttered laugh at the tease. Without a second thought, his hands curled into the soft fabric of the red flannel. It didn’t take anything more than a single tug to have the other man fall in closer. Their lips pressed together in a warm, soft mess. It was gentle and chaste, yet still enough to make both bodies instantly sag in relief. Clint’s hands flattened against Phil’s chest as his handler’s fingers squeezed gently at his jean clad hips.

It was the closest thing to Heaven Clint had ever known.

As they each pulled back, foreheads resting lightly together, Clint felt like a weight had been lifted off his chest. He found himself smiling like a goofus, chuckling softly to himself as he nudged at Coulson’s nose with his own.

“So worth it.”

~*~*~

Epilogue

_5 days later_

Clint blinked his eyes open blurrily. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep, or what day it even was. His body felt like a lead weight and his eyelids like little sinkers had been attached to them. If this was what death felt like, he wished it would just end already.

A cool cloth pressed to his forehead before it moved gently down his cheek and neck. A gentle voice was in his ear, pulling him from his hazy slumber. It took far too much effort for him to turn his head towards the voice, when he did though? The half-smile and bright eyes that greeted him was well worth the struggle.

“Still think kissing me while I was sick was worth it?”

Clint moaned softly, a heavy sigh escaping his lips as he let his eyes fall shut again.

“…’m not sick…” He muttered back quietly. “…’n’ so worth it…”

Coulson chuckled as he pulled the washcloth back and resettled himself on the bed. Leaning down, he pressed his lips tenderly to Clint’s forehead in a soft, comforting kiss. With a sweep of his fingers, he pushed the soggy dark blond clumps of hair back before reaching to pick a book up off the nightstand.

“ ‘Course you’re not. Shhh…get some rest.”

The pages of the book made a gentle swish as they were reopened and turned, the fingers of Phil’s left hand carding gently through Clint’s hair. As the archer slipped back into the darkness, he couldn’t fight the sleepy, sick smile that twitched at his lips.

“… _for no one ever came to jolly Robin for help in time of need and went away again with an empty fist._ ” Phil’s voice read softly from the book; slow, level and calm. “ _And now I will tell how it came about that Robin Hood fell afoul of the law._ ”

Yeah. It was all totally worth it.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> *DEFCON 2: Movies and popular culture often misuse the DEFCON system by "going to DEFCON 5" during a state of emergency.[6] In fact, DEFCON 5 is the lowest state of readiness. The highest state, DEFCON 1, has never been called for. DEFCON 2 is next step to nuclear war and the Armed Forces are ready to deploy and engage in less than 6 hours.  
> (Information taken from the DEFCON wiki-page).


End file.
